


He Does Something to Me

by Nerdvana



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-04
Updated: 2014-04-04
Packaged: 2018-01-18 02:53:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1412275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nerdvana/pseuds/Nerdvana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nights in the ER were John Watson's environment. He could abandon himself to adrenaline and had his life under control.  That's it, until a young, brilliant addict shows up in the hospital one night and happens to stay forever. Or- more likely- demanded his place in John's life and refused to leave, because normality is boring and it's obvious they are meant to keep meeting. Really, John, do keep up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It's black, It's white.

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock is nineteen and yes, he's an addict.  
> John never went to Afghanistan (in this life, that is).
> 
> I also do not own any of the characters.

_"He does something to me, that boy. Every time. It's his only detriment. He steps on my heart. He makes me cry."_ \- Markus Zusak, The Book Thief.

Sometimes you wish you could see life trough a dog's eyes: Black and White. This or that; Do or die; Safe or condemn.

See it like a dog, instead of having this vivid display of colours unlashing all over your eyes: Shades, tints, colours, options, choices, decisions, considerations, responsability.

Perhaps that's why dogs are so happy.

John would say he was an hybrid, always torn between the two:

In his work place, he played it like a dog. Things were pretty simple in the emergency room: You can either save the chap or let him die. You can do your very best or not. There was nothing else besides the life that was at stake, and the possibility you had of making it better.

In his every day like, however, John Watson was- regretably and undeniably- human. Always blinded by the colours, always tormented by choices, his shoulders heavy with considerations. [Harry is an alcoholic fucker. (to hell with her, John Dog says) BUT she is your sister (Human John states). The result? Hybrid John left hanging in the edge not knowing how to proceed.]

 

That is why John loved his work.

Except for the part where he met a strange addict with piercing blue yes and sharper than scapel mind, and a world of swirling unfolded upon him.

The first time was like any other: half dead man was rushed into the ER, the medical team did what they could to help him. Cocaine overdose, his first one, according to his brother. After he was stabilized and his body was slowly returning to normal, he was allowed to leave.

Only to come back three times after that.

* * *

 

The first one was- oh, joy- another overdose. That's when John started paying attention to the man (real attention, because -after all- bringing a hot cuppa to his patients was part of this duties as a doctor. He took care of mind and body). This time, Sherlock- as his file read- had to stay a little more in order to do proper observations, and John had a lot of chances to interact with him.

He learned that the man was brilliant. Actually, he was an actual genius in every sense of the word. He deduced everything about John, he stripped him bare without touching a fiber of his clothing, John had never felt more exposed, more human. The man had undone him, and he fucking _loved it._

So as the honest man he was, John didn't hide his admiration, to which Sherlock responded looking stunned and bewildered, and- for an instant- incredibly young and fragile.

He was released two days and four cuppas after.

* * *

 

The second time, the plot thickened: Sherlock had- and let me quote this- " _accidentally fallen on one of his syringes while rushing to examine a particularly gross crime scene before the idiots of the yard arrived. Of course, the offending needle had frustrated every scientific pursuit and had rendered his left leg useless. He demanded to see Dr. Watson and have this bothersome issue sorted out inmediately...What are you looking at, you brainless spinter? your four cats are not going to feed themselves._ "

So they begged John to attend the patient, since he wasn't exactly...sober and was deducing the soul out of everyone and threatened to continue unless they bring John to him.

That night, they talked. All night.The duration of John's entire shift. It was a quiet one, thankfully, and the colours that tormented John before now lulled him in like a moth to a flame.

Sherlock was a world of contradictions:

He was a homeless 19-year old addict; He was also the brightest man John had ever known. He loathed his brother and despised his power; but he was very concerned that the situation of his addiction never got to his mother's ears. He enjoyed disturbing crimes, but was an expert violinst.

He was rude and antisocial; he was also so surprisingly attentive to John...

 

As the night progressed and they were falling into a light doze, John could feel something converging. He was at the 2000's and the 1800's, he had been man, woman. He had been lover and friend, Dcotor and Officer.He had traveled from Afghanistan to Sherlock's heart and back.

 

And now he was here, sitting besides Sherlock's bed, trying to make him up, thinking of him constantly and wondering why had he ever hated the complexity of colour.

* * *

 

The third night was the worse one: Sherlock had been on the verge of death. Some social worker had found him passed out in an ally, beaten, robbed and drugged.

John's heart had died and everything went black and white for a second.  
The exact millisecond it took for the Dog to take over and started shouting everyone orders. Get this, help me with that. I need these tests...for tonight, if you please? No, don't pressure too hard. For god's sake, give me space! Are all of you ready? _We are not allowed to let this one die_!

Saving Sherlock was both the most exciting and scariest night of his life. It have him the emotion he craved for in the ER, but also frightened him and made him feel like a kitty curled in a moist corner. He tried everything like never before and had been calm steady, there was no choice. The road clear in front of him: Either you safe Sherlock, or you save him.

There is no try.

 _(Please, God, let him live)_.


	2. Colours.

God really, really loved John.

He fucking adored him.

Some strenous hours later and numerous nerves breakdowns on John's part, Sherlock was stable. Better than that, _he would live._

His brother Mycroft had arrived within the night, and after thanking John for his good work, proposed to take Sherlock to one of his "trusted clinics". John, of course, was having none of that. I saved the sod, I wrapped him up. I cleaned the wounds and removed that ridiculous needle, I made him _tea_ , therefore, I'm staying with him.

Mycroft had raised and eyebrow and muttered something about quick loyalties, before nodding smoothly and proceed to sit besides Sherlock's bed.

The police had arrived the day after, fishing for a statement. The patient was still recovering and he was on no condition to be submitted to any kind of stress, and Sherlock's reaction to DI Lestrade had showed quite a lot of that, thank you.

Turns out that Sherlock was trying to quit it. The cocaine? He was no longer consuming it. He had even made up his mind to go to Mycroft and demand a rehab, and was actually on his way there when the assault happened.

It had been Victor, his former dealer. Sherlock had told him the deal was off. He was no longer his client but he wished him luck in business. When asked why- by John, weeks later- Sherlock had actually _blushed_ and said it was for John, always for John.

"I used to pass by the hospital in the hours I knew you were on break. I used to watch you, catalogue you, learned everything withing my reach. Soon I found out that I couldn't do that while being high. It quiets my mind, but suddenly there was you, and you set it to a deadly silent, so I used less.

I didn't fell on the needle, I stepped on it on purpose just to get a chance to see you, to discover more...I needed more, John. More of you than the limited things the cocaine was getting me.

I needed data, and that night, I got it. So much it was overwhelming, I even started using again because it was too much, and _the things_ you did to me...Sometimes I spent so much time analyzing you in my mind palace that I literally forgot how to _breathe."_

Sherlock paused and looked up at John sheepishly: "I figured that you wouldn't want an addict sociopath, so I had to change. I told Victor that I wouldn't be buying his...product again, and he seemed perfectly at ease. He cornered me that night, told me that I'd never be anything more than a fucking addict, that no one would ever want me, especially you.

We fought, I lost and he injected me cocaine. Said it was his treat, and when I finally accepted that I needed more, I knew where to find him."

John gulped, his fist clenched and blood boiled. To tell that beautiful and broken human being that he was unappealing? unfitted to love? It was a fucking crime. 

 

Sherlock, deducing his lover's conflicted thoughts, just smiled smugly:

"Think nothing of it. I am clean- or in the process to be- and I'll never see Victor again. Surely you must know, it was all for you."

Sherlock looked at him like he was decoding every cell on his body: "It's always you. John Watson, you keep me right. And I'd put up with your ugly jumpers and social norms as long as you let me catalog you for the rest of my life."

John stared into blue eyes, black hair and red lips, and decided that yes, colours were definitely good.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for putting up with yet another senseless story! xD Please let me know what you think of it. I apologice for whatever OOC-ness that may have ensued, but Sherlock's part was damn hard.


End file.
